This is a spin-off of several works I have completed or are currently underway.
This series of short stories will follow a few of my characters through the rehabilitation process until they have their moment of clarity.
Some issues dealt with in thi...
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Weight, height, and vitals.
Those were staples in all doctor's visits.
What wasn't a staple was the nurse taking my blood pressure three, separate times. Once on my left biceps, once on my right bicep, and then again on my left bicep, only manually this time.
"Do you know what your standard blood pressure is?"
I shrugged, glancing toward my mom in question.
She shook her head. "I don't think it's ever been high, if that's what you're asking."
The nurse shook her head. "No... Joel's blood pressure is actually reading very, very low."
Oh.
"Is that a bad thing?" I asked. "Low blood pressure is good, right?"
She didn't answer, so I had a feeling that it wasn't as good as I hoped it'd be.
"Can you stand up for me?" she asked.
"Joel gets dizzy when he stands," mom said, her eyebrows pinching together. "He has a concussion."
And an eating disorder.
The nurse held onto my arm to help steady me as I slowly rose up from the chair, the dizziness hitting me almost immediately.
I gripped the arm of the chair as she took my blood pressure for a fourth time.
She almost immediately ushered me to sit down again.
"I'm going to go and get the doctor," she said. "It should only be a couple of minutes." She reached into the cabinet, handing me a hospital gown. "Go ahead and change while you wait."
We watched her go, and I could feel my anxiety starting to rise.
That couldn't be good.
"I'm sure, whatever it is, they have an answer for it," mom said, in a soothing voice. "Try to relax."
My mom could read me all-too well.
I wrung my hands in my lap as we waited for the doctor, my mom's gaze down at her phone. I'm sure she was googling the effects of low blood pressure.
Web MD tended to make me even more anxious, so I tried to stay away from googling my symptoms.
I went ahead and changed while my mom was preoccupied, having to use the wall as a support.
The door clicked open after nearly ten minutes, the doctor stepping inside.
At least I assumed she was the doctor. She was wearing a Nirvana t-shirt and dark wash jeans, but had a stethoscope around her neck.
"Dr. Rivera," she said, extending her hand toward me.
So she was the doctor. "Joel Campbell," I said, offering up a hand shake.
